Will Fisher strode through the corridor of the Charlemagne Wing in St. Peter’s on his way to the press conference. Never had this top floor been reserved for a photographic exhibition as spectacular as his. Journalists aimed cameras at him. Guests parted like the Dead Sea as he deigned to acknowledge with nods and hand waves familiar faces lined up beside his triumphal procession.
He called the shots now. Not bad for the son of a Milwaukee butcher and Nazi war criminal. His fame offset the family shame. The adulation of the attendees jolted him into euphoria without the services of his friend, Jack Daniels.
Along the walls, blue banners spelled out the exhibition’s theme in gold lettering: Discovery of the Double Sarcophagi. Between the banners hung black-and-white photographs preserving for posterity the chronological record of the great discovery. Near the press conference location, Fisher basked in the sight of a crowd gaping at an enlarged photograph running from floor to ceiling.
The photo recorded the discovery of a second burial under the false bottom of the Callinicus sarcophagus. His team and he, the rather handsome one, stood beside the sarcophagus with the false bottom opened. The team had just removed a skull resting on a deteriorated red satin pillow next to a headless skeleton clothed in tatters. The skeleton was missing parts. Forensic testing confirmed the skull and other skeletal remains were portions of the same body. Christian tradition supported beheading as the cause of Saint Paul’s death. A plaque on the wall next to the photograph translated the Latin text inscribed inside the false bottom.
THANKS TO MATRONA LUCILLA, MOTHER OF CALLINICUS INTERRED ABOVE AND THE PURCHASER OF THIS SARCOPHAGUS, PAUL OF TARSUS LIES HEREIN, APOSTLE OF CHRIST AND ROMAN CITIZEN, DIED A MARTYR AT 57 YEARS, A FRIEND TO CALLINICUS, THE FATHER OF FATHERS PRESIDING OVER THE MITHRAIC CONGREGATIONS IN ROME.
“Congratulations.” The voice sounded familiar. Fisher finished signing an autograph and turned around. An usher restrained the rector of the Pontifical Gregorian University and others from crowding the professor.
“Let him pass.” Fisher liked being in charge.
“Glad to have our superstar back at the university . . . once you make the statement at the press conference.” The rector shifted his feet. “You will, won’t you?”
“You’ll have to attend and find out.” The rector had been the first to turn on him when the Vatican witch hunt began. Let the coward dangle in the wind. This company man needed him. But he was superprof now. He didn’t need the rector. Fisher turned his back and strolled to the press conference at the end of the corridor.
In the press conference room, Nicole sat in the back row of folding chairs. Her presence at what would be his bravura performance surprised him. He waved off a photographer who angled on bended knee for a shot. He should have called back as her voice mail requested. He started toward her to make amends only to be redirected by the Vatican press secretary to a table covered with a white cloth bearing an image of the papal seal. The secretary sat down next to Fisher.
“Remember,” he whispered. “You must recant here.”
“Must I?” They were dealing with superprof now.
The papal secretary glowered at Fisher before he explained the ground rules of the press conference to the media reporters. Fisher waved to Nicole. She didn’t wave back. He’d see her after his performance and make things right. Upset over his father’s death, excitement over the discovery . . . two good excuses.
In his opening statement, he retold the story of his discovery with a dramatic flair worthy of his best classroom performances, climaxing with the Latin word proximus on the upper tomb of Callinicus and its linguistic implication of Saint Paul’s physical proximity.
Acting on a hunch—or perhaps divine inspiration, as the press secretary interjected—he had his team insert an optical probe into the opening at the base of the Callinicus tomb. The probe revealed the remains of a dead body.
The team removed bricks from the base and found a slab used as a false bottom to seal off the upper tomb. The inscription inside the lower tomb confirmed Christian tradition. A Roman noblewoman named Matrona Lucilla had Saint Paul buried in a family tomb. The bones dated back to the time of Saint Paul. Other testing corroborated the approximate age of the man as mentioned in the inscription.
“Why,” a reporter asked, “would they bury Paul underneath Callinicus?”
“One moment before we recognize questions.” The press secretary whispered in Fisher’s ear. “Will you recant?”
“Now’s not the time.” Fisher stood up to avoid the press secretary.
“Back to answering your question.” He had figured it out. “We all know Nero blamed the Christians for the fire in Rome. He hunted them down for execution. The surviving Christians and their pagan friends, like Callinicus and his mother, recovered Saint Paul’s corpse. They buried it in the lower part of a double-decker sarcophagus.
“When Callinicus died, they laid him to rest in the upper part. The Callinicus letter we found earlier in the Villa of the Papyri shows how friendly the two were . . . ‘You will remain close to me in death as in life.’ Notice the clever wordplay by Callinicus. What started out in the letter as a close relationship in life ended literally in physical closeness at death.”
Nicole took pen and paper from her purse. She was going to take notes of what he said. He must be wowing the journalists. Even she hung on his words.
“Professor Fisher,” a florid-faced priest said. “As a fellow American scholar, you surely know Pope Benedict XVI declared Saint Paul’s bones rest in a sarcophagus under the altar of Saint Paul Outside-the-Walls in Rome. Are you disputing a pope?”
“Not at all.” He planned on his nemesis from the ultraconservative Legionaries of Christ showing up. “Investigators only found bone fragments of a corpse in the first or second century AD. The pope never said they were Saint Paul’s bones, only that they seemed to confirm belief.”
Nicole stopped writing and folded the paper.
“Come now,” the priest said. “The marble plaque over the sarcophagus at Saint Paul Outside-the-Walls reads: ‘To Paul, Apostle and Martyr.’ It’s obvious, like asking who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb.”
Fisher smoldered as the audience broke out in laughter.
How dare this representative of a religious group whose founder had been implicated in sexual scandal rain on his parade?
“Look at the photograph.” His voice rising, Fisher pointed down the corridor. “The Matrona Lucilla inscription also declares the remains I found to be those of Paul.”
“One set of bones must be a fake,” a journalist yelled out.
“Not necessarily.” He had thought long and hard about this seeming contradiction. “Tradition says Matrona Lucilla buried Saint Paul in a family tomb. As Christians became socially accepted, the faithful could have reburied Saint Paul’s bone fragments under the current Saint Paul Outside-the-Walls. Early Christians dismembered bodies of saints and martyrs as holy and miraculous relics for distribution and . . .”
Why is Nicole handing the paper to an usher?
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” the priest said, “but aren’t you the person who got taken in by the Unity Report?”
“I’m also the person who admitted publicly I was wrong.” He couldn’t leave it there. “I don’t know about you, but I believe in keeping an open mind.”
“Gentlemen, please,” the press secretary said. “No personal remarks.”
“To complete my thoughts . . . before the interruption . . . Saint Paul’s remains were removed at least once. That’s why we didn’t find a complete skeleton. Early Christians divided up the bones of saints and martyrs for their miraculous powers and to increase the geographic area of veneration.” He paused to take a sip of water. “Therefore, it’s perfectly possible the bones we found and the fragments under Saint Paul Outside-the-Walls are all from Saint Paul.”
“One more question.”
The press secretary looked at his watch.
“Why,” asked a reporter, “don’t you compare the fragments in Saint Paul Outside-the-Walls with those you found?”
“Why not?” Fisher smiled. “I agree.”
The usher approached the table with Nicole’s note.
For me or the press secretary?
“Impossible.” The priest from the Legionaries of Christ was on his feet. “A comparison would disturb the only true relic in Saint Paul Outside-the-Walls.”
“Not at all impossible.” The priest’s know-it-all attitude diverted his attention from Nicole. “I have authority from the pope to make a comparison. It’s my choice.”
“No more questions,” the press secretary said. “Any concluding statement to make, Professor Fisher?” He stared icicles at the professor. “This is your last chance.”
“I take this opportunity,” Fisher said in a flat voice, “to publicly retract the theological views on religious syncretism expressed in my latest book, One God with Many Names. My views were ill considered in light of Roman Catholic doctrine and upsetting to many. I apologize for any scandal.”
Nicole hurried out of the room. The usher handed Fisher her note.
Contact me when your performance is over. We need to talk. Nicole
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Bouncing around in a truck at 3:00 a.m., Marco Leone felt like an interrogation room suspect spied on through a two-way mirror. Across from him sat the “leatherheads” of the police counterterrorist unit known as NOCS, the Italian acronym for Central Security Operations Unit. In dark-olive combat fatigues, the NOCS commander and his men armed with assault rifles scrutinized Leone through the eye slits of their black balaclavas.
They wouldn’t be on this dangerous mission if the AISI hadn’t botched the capture of Lucio Piso. A tracking device on the cardinal’s limousine allowed the domestic intelligence agency to trace the kidnapped Furbone to Piso’s Maremma farmhouse. But the AISI agents didn’t foresee Piso going to the aquarium in an untracked pickup before they raided the farmhouse. By the time the agents made it to the aquarium, Piso had escaped in a getaway car. Their only achievement was to chop off the head of a flopping moray eel, its jagged teeth clamped to the cardinal’s corpse.
“Why did you invite me along?”
The NOCS commander normally would not have given Leone the time of day.
“You deserve it.” The commander ran his hand over his holstered Glock 17. “Your guys uncovered Piso’s safe house near Ciampino Airport.”
That part was true.
His Leone Squad had linked the neofascist owner of the safe house, a cashiered lieutenant colonel, to Roma Rinata. The renegade had helped organize Operation Gladio, set up by the CIA after World War II to wage guerilla war if Italy went communist. The authorities implicated but never convicted him for far-right bombings during the Years of Lead in the 1970s. Inspector Rossi warned Leone the lieutenant colonel had chartered a flight to Switzerland from Ciampino Airport with Piso traveling incognito.
But something wasn’t right.
When did NOCS start sharing credit for operations with rivals? And why did the commander invite along a mere civilian cop he had scorned in the past?
“Besides, you trained with NOCS,” the commander said, as though he had divined Leone’s misgivings. “I always wondered why you resigned.”
“What are your assault plans?”
Diverted by the question, as Leone intended, the commander elaborated his attack plan. Leone in tow, he would spearhead a team ringing the villa’s main entrance while another team surrounded the rear. On signal, the team leader at the rear would set off a display of confiscated fireworks to distract those inside while the commander’s team stormed the front.
The truck whiplashed to a stop behind a thicket of trees surrounding the villa. The commander ordered radio silence. They all slipped out of the truck and slunk toward the front entrance with the stealth of predators. At the edge of underbrush, the commander signaled everyone to take cover. He peered through night-vision binoculars. “What the fuck?”
Leone poked his head up. “What’s wrong?”
“Look.”
Through night binoculars, Leone detected four black-hooded figures, each holding a Mauser 86SR rifle. The Special Intervention Group of the carabinieri. Who had let this rival counterpart of the NOCS strike force in on the operation? And why did they stand guard under the portico instead of making arrests?
God help us. Leone smelled a disaster of friendly fire in the making.
He had to take the chance they’d recognize him and not shoot.
“Where the hell are you going?” the commander asked. “You’ll ruin everything.”
In the distance, a thumping sound alerted Leone to a helicopter moving toward the villa. Must be a carabinieri asset. NOCS isn’t using helicopters.
“Don’t shoot.” He raised his hands. “I’m Commissario Marco Leone.”
“Halt,” a voice yelled out. “Or we shoot.”
“There’s been a mistake.” He halted. “A NOCS team is behind me.”
The leader of the Carabinieri Special Intervention Group approached with a rifle pointed at Leone. “Get out. You’re spoiling our operation.”
A shot rang out behind Leone. The head of a wood nymph statue next to him shattered in shards across the lawn. He hit the ground.
“Stop shooting.” The officer crouched down. “We’re carabinieri.”
The NOCS commander emerged from the underbrush with Glock 17 in hand, his brood of commandos straggling behind like ducklings. From the blame game played by the NOCS and carabinieri over responsibility for the near death of the commissario, Leone gathered enough information to fear the worst.
Pursuing their own classified investigation, the carabinieri had raided the villa, not aware the NOCS strike force would arrive. Getting wind of this unforeseen intervention, an AISE agent from the conspiracy-riddled foreign intelligence service insisted on accompanying the carabinieri so he could negotiate a peaceful surrender.
Suspicious of the AISE agent’s intentions, Leone shouted, “Let’s attack!” to overcome the helicopter noise nearing the villa. “Before they escape.”
“What did you say?” the NOCS commander asked, looking up at the helicopter.
“Let’s raid the place. We’re losing time.”
“We can’t.” The carabinieri leader shouted over the noise. “The AISE representative is inside trying to negotiate a surrender. We are guarding the place in the meantime.”
“Is that your copter up there?” Leone asked.
“No.” The carabinieri officer looked at the helicopter angling over the roof of the villa for a landing. “I thought it was yours.”
The light inside the villa flicked off at the same time a light went on in the commissario’s head.
“You’ve been duped.” Leone pointed to the villa “The AISE representative must be in cahoots with Piso. Let’s go before they hustle Piso and the lieutenant colonel away.”
The air reverberated with a chain of explosions in the villa’s rear. The NOCS team had set off the cache of fireworks. The explosion faded away, replaced by the swoosh of Roman candles exploding colored balls in the sky. Green and red pearls of fire. Yellow spinning sparks. And a grand finale of pink peonies across the sky.
“Who screwed up?” Leone pointed to the villa. “If they didn’t know we were here, they do now.”
“I’ll look into it.” The NOCS commander shrugged. “We’ve lost the element of surprise. I’m calling off the assault.”
“You’re what?” Leone looked at the villa. “They’ll get away.”
“We’ll keep it under surveillance.” He ordered his men back to the truck.
“You can’t walk away.”
“No? Just watch me.”
As the NOCS uni
t departed, Leone rushed the front door with the carabinieri strike force. They battered it down. Two suspects rushed up the stairway. He fired his Beretta. Hit in the leg, one suspect tumbled down the stairs. The other surrendered to the carabinieri and confessed. Leone raced to the roof.
He arrived just in time to see the helicopter buzz away into the night.
Chapter Sixty-Eight
The domestic intelligence agency known as AISI drove the handcuffed NOCS commander away in a black Alfa Romeo past Leone. To the commissario’s satisfaction, a no-man’s land ringed by police sealed off the Baths of Caracalla from the armed insurrectionists inside.
“Are you certain?” Leone asked.
“We broke Carlos Stroheim. He told us everything we suspected about the conspiracy and then some. The NOCS commander was in on the plot.” The bald-headed AISI agent twirled his aviator sunglasses. “He was about to defect to the cabal hunkered down under the baths.”
“Hold on.” Leone closed his eyes and rubbed his nose with index finger and thumb. “He raided the villa with me to capture Piso.”
“He was supposed to have you killed . . . accidentally . . . at the villa.”
Of course.
How could he have overlooked it? He remembered gunshot shattering the wood nymph statue only a half meter from him. He felt numb. “A raid just to murder me?”
“A feigned raid.” The AISI agent squinted through puffy eyes. “Just a diversionary ruse, like Piso’s supposed escape to Argentina via Switzerland. Piso was never at the villa. Just the former lieutenant colonel, the co-conspirator and owner of the safe house where Piso stayed. The NOCS commander planned to let the colonel escape in the helicopter so he could join Piso in the baths.”
The AISI agent pointed with sunglasses to the Baths of Caracalla. “Piso has set up his command post over there in the mithraeum under the baths.” The mountainous structure loomed ominous before them as the morning sun burned off the camouflage of haze.
“Why would Piso box himself inside the ancient baths?” Leone scoured the red-brick ruins of the Baths of Caracalla. “What’s he up to?”
The Mithras Conspiracy Page 27